


Social Fabric: a Non-comprehensive guide on getting a job, a boyfriend, and some confidence

by NekoAisu



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Fashion & Couture, Fashion Designer Lance, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, M/M, Modeling, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, model keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14891444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/NekoAisu
Summary: Lance is eight the first time he holds a sewing needle.He's ten by the time he can reliably fix his own shirts, fourteen before he really gets the hang of making basic clothing, and by the time he's in college it's like the McClain family has its own little atelier. He repurposes his old clothes for his younger siblings, turns old shirts to rompers and worn jeans to overalls.His mother knows, however, that he's not going to settle for just fixing things up, or working at a tailoring shop the rest of his life, but she doesn't expect him to come home one day looking absolutely exhausted and say, "Hey, mom, think I can land a job at Altea?"





	Social Fabric: a Non-comprehensive guide on getting a job, a boyfriend, and some confidence

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to how much fashion design and textile specifics can Kiri bs their way through on this fine day without sounding like an idiot. I hope you enjoy reading about these kids figuring out how to succeed in a business that's more competitive than the Olympics.

Lance McClain is twenty and very much out of his depth.

“Excuse me, sir, but can you repeat that?”

The dean sighed, taking his glasses off to rub at the sides of his nose. “I _said_ , ‘your tuition is under default.’ Is that clear enough for you, McClain?” The man was clearly tired, papers cluttering his desk and spilling from binders haphazardly shoved into already overflowing shelves. His nameplate read MR. THACE like people didn’t know from the designation underneath the room number outside. Most people would avoid the Dean’s office like the plague, anyways. There’s no point in seeking him out unless there’s a huge issue the barely-competent part time employees can’t hope to tackle.

Like an issue with his files.

“I understand, sir,” Lance forces out. He knows Mr. Thace isn’t being purposefully rude to him, but he’s still _frustrated._ He’s gone to nearly every single person he can possibly bother for answers, or some way to resolve the very important issue of his _complete lack of money_ to pay for classes without his scholarship. “Thank you for your time.”

He stands up from the uncomfortable vinyl of one of the visitor’s chairs and grabs his bag, trying his hardest to not crush the papers in his hands. His expression is pinched, alight with worry and grief, and he’s reminded of his sister’s upcoming birthday that Friday.

 _Good god it’s_ Wednesday. _I’m going to die._

He has to get groceries, somehow cough up 3K in course fees his scholarship was _supposed_ to cover, and renew his bus pass in the next two days. Not to mention finish his gift for Carmen. He couldn’t pull extra shifts to get at least a little of the required money if he was going to make it in time to complete the romper.

Lance shuffles down the administrative building’s fifth floor hallway, staring at the ground with his head working itself up towards the clouds. There’s not much he _can_ do, financial situation being what it is, and the most he can possibly come up with in the week would be maybe $200? Probably less. He doesn’t get his check until the next week over and his hourly pay is barely above minimum wage for the state, a measly $9. It’s only a buffer to cover the third of the rent his mother struggles to pay for without him. He’d rather she use whatever she has left over and treat herself sometimes, even if it’s just to a 99 cent coffee from the nearby gas station before work some days.

He smacks the elevator button with more force than strictly necessary, frowning when it opens a whole minute later. Everything on campus is outdated – even the “newer” buildings aren’t quite up to modern snuff – and the elevators are perhaps the worst of it. They creak and shake like haunted tin cans in a too small cupboard, lights long since dimmed enough to be nearly nonexistent.

Lance does not at all like taking the elevators here, but the stairs are even less trustworthy, rusted metal frames already warped from storm seasons of years past, so he perseveres.

Once he’s on the first floor again, he makes for the cafeteria. He’s not hungry, but he knows Hunk will be there this time of day and he’s in desperate need of his best friend’s sage advice. He wishes he had the even temperament his friend never seemed to lose, but Lance is Lance – over expressive, heart on his sleeve, and too easily won over – and he’s just happy to have Hunk on his side.

The walk is shaded around half of the way there, but the concrete is hot enough he can feel it through the soles of his sneakers. The roofs all shimmer with midday summer heat and Lance spaces a moment to wonder if it’s hot enough to _really_ fry an egg on the pavement. By the time he arrives at the cafeteria, he’s halfway to feeling like he’s the sole sufferer of a drought.

The air-conditioning is a blessed reprieve from the oppressive weather and Lance spots Hunk sitting with someone he’s never met before in a far corner of the hall. He hurries over and nearly collapses into an open chair, cool metal soothing even through his shirt. “Hey, hey! What are my favorite person and his very cool guest-slash-friend up to on this fine afternoon? I’m dying.”

“What happened, Lance?” Hunk passes him a water bottle and cracks open a Tupperware container to offer him choice of myriad different cookies.

Hunk’s newfound friend scowls a bit, seemingly upset over Lance’s mood. “Yeah, man, what’s up? Want me to step out for a bit and give you some space?”

The offer is surprisingly considerate and Lance shakes his head, voice surprisingly stable for how close he feels to crying, “Don’t worry about it. My tuition is under default and now I need three thousand dollars and also therapy- that being optional.” _God, I wish the money part was optional,_ he thinks and snatches one of each cookie type he can see. He pops one of the smaller ones in his mouth with a smile. He chews slowly and gives Hunk a reverent look. “Holy _shit,_ man, these are the best mango cookies I’ve ever had in my _life_. You’re a god among men, Hunk. A truly divine being.”

“Oh, shush, you. Flattery gets you nothing but more cookies and you _know_ it,” Hunk chastises with a laugh. “This is Pidge, by the way. You remember the kid I told you fell asleep two minutes into our astrophysics class? This is them.”

Pidge shoves their glasses up their nose and grins at them both. “Nice to meet you!” They’re half cocooned in a loose green sweater that’s three sizes too big, typing away on their laptop without looking at the keys, round glasses frames comically large on their petite face. “What’s this about it going into default, though? Your tuition, I mean.”

“Just thinking about it is chipping years off my life, I _swear,”_ Lance laments, draping himself over the available tabletop with a sigh. “All I get from the bursar’s office was an email that refuse to respond to. So I visit and they tell me to see the Dean because it’s apparently his choice, who gets design scholarships, and all he says is that the money is in default? How? Why? Would it kill them to just _explain?!_ I also only have three weeks to pay it, just so you know.”

Hunk passes him another mango cookie with an apologetic smile, voice even as he suggests, “Why not call the board?”

“You and I both know I hate making phone calls and that it will only happen in a situation of life-or-death importan-“

“Dropping out, or making a phone call. I know calling people, _especially_ overworked call center people, sucks ass, but you have to do it, man,” Pidge reasons. They snag a cookie from the plastic container and scrub a hand through their hair. “Okay, real quick, forget our homework and come help me murder Shiro because I _swear_ if I have to get one more text about how much his new ad campaign’s testing Matt’s, and I quote, _“poor gay heart”_ I may actually go crazy.”

Lance sits up fast enough he’s fairly sure he’s going to pass out before exclaiming far too loud for their current location, voice nearly cracking, “You know _Shiro?!_ Like, _Altea_ ’s Shiro?!”

Pidge shrugs like knowing a supermodel of sorts is a minor thing and says, “Yeah. Why?”

“If I met him I think I’d actually die. Like, combust on the spot,” he whines. “I’d kill for him to wear something I made.”

“That reminds me, Hunk said you’re a fashion design major?” Pidge clicks around and flips their laptop around with a clunk. “Altea is opening up internships for undergrads. It’s a new thing they want to try out to get some variety in the industry from younger folks and all that. I can send you the link, if you want?”

 _“Please,”_ Lance accepts. Pidge has him enter his number into their phone before sending him a text with the link. He tries out the other cookies slowly, and drains the rest of his water by the time he’s done reading through all the application information. “This might actually be doable if I can somehow cough up both money and skill I do not have,” he jokes.

Pidge leans around their laptop to mention, “Did I tell you it’s paid, too?”

Lance is pretty sure this is what his mother means when she tells him he’s always been a lucky boy (mostly based on the number of times he’s narrowly avoided severe injury). He chances to ask, “How much?” He’s pretty sure he’s near to squeaking it, but Pidge doesn’t comment.

They take a moment to pull something up and then reply, “Around twelve dollars, at the lowest, for managerial stuff. Junior designers– let’s see… oh! Found it. Fifteen an hour. Twenty-five hours a week, in-house. They say the interns that get hired at the end of the program start at twenty an hour. There’s a huge after-hours workload, though.”

“I’ve made it through six classes’ worth of final exams in three days. I think I can handle it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and critique! Feedback is much appreciated in any form (including keysmashes and caps lock)! <3
> 
> Yell with me on:  
> Tumblr - Kiriami-sama  
> Twitter - FlamingAceKiri


End file.
